To Your Pink
Your pink dress pleases me. The way it clings
to your tits, juts your throat, shows off your pits,
and coats you like a swarm of wet bee wings,
bee wings from wet pink bees. It really fits
you well, this satin dress. Where’d you get it?
Did you shed it, like a pink snake, in your sleep,
find it on the floor, decide to slip it
on this evening to make sure I’d want to peel
it off you again tonight? Where’d this pink
come from: flowers, nipples, Venus’s plate?
Or did it arise like a blush in your cheeks,
and then whelm your figure, just to desecrate
the modesty that tinted it? I doubt,
actually, your pink is that devout.
after Theophile Gautier’s "A une robe rose"
– Jason Camlot